


Hello world! I'm your wild girl

by Elasmo



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, First Meetings, No Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, muscle car porn, of the fake variety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21846109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elasmo/pseuds/Elasmo
Summary: She’s halfway down a storm drain, soaked and freezing and she’s not even supposed to be here.
Relationships: Cherry Bang/Keith Bang
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Hello world! I'm your wild girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rivulet027](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivulet027/gifts).



They met on a set of course. Cherry was there for the car. It was a red 1971 Mustang Mach 1 with a 266 horsepower 351 Cobra Jet V8 and Cherry was in love. She had free reign to tear through south LA at 90 miles an hour, slaloming through slower traffic set up for her to knock down and grinding up through the car’s three-speed transmission as she took it from zero to sixty in 6 seconds. She drifted through an intersection in a high-speed squeal, teeth bared in a smile.

“Fierce,” shouted the director, “Yes!” as she improvised a sliding 180 stop just for. They paid her for this shit. When she pealed herself out of the vinyl interior at the end of the run she had what felt like a permanent smile stretched across her face. She grieved for the first time in her short career to hear they only had money for two takes—the rest of the afternoon was the actress, a slim woman with Cherry’s height and braids and an incredible derriere, getting in and out of the car and posing dramatically.

That was yesterday. Today it’s raining and she’s holding the glowing memory of the Mustang tight so she doesn’t punch someone. She’s halfway down a storm drain, soaked and freezing and she’s not even supposed to be here. One of the actresses was slated for this scene but balked when she saw the drain. Said she wouldn’t fit or some bullshit. Cherry doesn’t blame her; it’s a real storm drain, dark and cramped and lurking large enough under its anonymous corner of suburban LA and to swallow a small child.

“This is perfect. This is authentic! Beautiful,” the director shouted, while the tech guys set up and Cherry stood next to him looking dubiously at the hole. Cherry couldn’t believe the city condones dangerous traps like this on its fancy residential streets. The director held his hand out under the first drops of rain. “Authentic!”

The tech guys looked less enthusiastic.

Cherry was on set to pick up her check and talk with the production manager about the stunt schedule for the rest of the gig. She still hasn’t met the stunt director. She was telling the PM that she hopes the guy saw her driving because she wouldn’t mind picking up more gigs like that when the casting director latched onto her.

“You. Yes, close enough. You’re on the stunt team, right?” the intense woman stated more than asked, towing her in the direction of wardrobe.

“Yeah. Jasmine’s double.”

“Okay. It’s dark. Put you in Vivian’s costume, close enough. You could be Latina.” Cherry was still feeling good about the driving, so she shrugged. She’s gotten a lot of practice shrugging off shit movie people say, and this wasn’t even that rude on the scale of things. Before she knew what was happening, she was in short shorts and a white crop top, wriggling carefully backwards on her stomach from the pavement into the drain.

“Atta girl,” shouted the director. “You fit right?” No problem, no problem, it’s great to work with professionals. Let’s roll tape while the rain holds.”

Cherry is not at all sure she’ll fit. Her subconscious is ringing with the sure sense she will get stuck in there and drown in a flash flood from all this rain. Real rain, not effects. In LA, what the fuck?

The drain is far more terrifying than the tentacle puppet that’s incompetently feeling up her crotch as she flounders and screams. She’s not really having to feign the anxiety right now. Her elbows and knees are also authentically bloodied from scraping across the pavement.

“I like the rage I’m getting from you. Channel that,” shouts the director, who clearly has a death wish. Cherry is ready to show him some real rage. Her martial arts skills are also not fake and she would be happy to give a free demo. They’ve been doing this for two hours because the fucking robot tentacle won’t writhe on cue and the actor who is supposed to slide to the rescue on a sportbike keeps blowing his entrance. He doesn’t know how to lay that bike down and should not, in Cherry’s opinion, be allowed near that beautiful piece of equipment. Cherry is itching to trade places with him.

They take a break while the director pep talks/harangues the actor. A heavy-set man with a beard pulls Cherry out of the drain and hands her a towel, tisking over her wounds like a mother hen and wrapping his coat around her shoulders. She's seen him around and thinks she should know his name. But she’s so angry and cold she can’t think straight. Her shivering isn’t fake either. It’s fucking December; even southern California is too cold for this shit.

Her mother hen leaves her with his coat, talks to the director and actor for a few minutes and leaves like a man with a task, so he’s probably a production assistant. Or he could be in props. He seems to have some authority. She hasn’t seen a brother in that role, but this slasher does have a black cast. She tunes out for a while, staring at the lovely blue and yellow Honda CB750 and dreaming of jumping aboard and screaming off into the night. The man is back, pushing a steaming drink into her hands. This production assistant is damn good at his job. And saying something to her.

“What?” she asks, pulling her eyes away from the curling steam and the rain hitting the dark surface of the coffee.

“I said, just one more take. And it’s Keith.” He gives her a goofy grin. “We met yesterday, but you probably don’t remember.”

“Right, Keith. Cherry.”

“I know,” he says, patting her hand soothingly. Then he’s taking her Styrofoam cup from her and helping her back in the fucking hole, and they do one more fucking take. Keith stands by patiently, holding an umbrella and her cup and a pile of sopping towels. He hauls her back out after the director calls cut and stomps off irritably, shouting for his AD.

“Good job,” says the dude, her mother hen, Keith. “You’re done, it’s over. Vivian volunteered her trailer so you can get a hot shower and dry off.”

Cherry very much doubts the actress volunteered anything, but she’ not looking a gift trailer in the mouth. She follows Keith to the trailer and accept a plastic bag that turns out to contain her clothes and a dry towel. In the shower she dunks her whole head under the blessedly hot water. Her braids are sopping anyway, are going to be a frizzy mess tomorrow without a trip to the salon or cashing in a favor with her sister.

When she emerges from the tiny bathroom, Keith is standing by the couch with a first aid kit the size of a small suitcase. He gestures her toward the couch, kneeling and opening the case on the floor.

“This will sting,” he says, cradling her arm to wipe at the wide grazes on her elbow with alcohol. "That was some nice driving yesterday," he prattles on, distracting her. Her own mother was never this motherly. 

"Thanks." She stares at him, nonplussed, as he smooths on the antibiotic ointment.

“We only got Star Wars band-aids,” he says, smiling his winning smile. “You want Leia, Luke or Han?” 

“I’ll take Luke.”

She comes to set the next day with Star Wars band-aids still on her elbows and peeking through the ripped knees of her jeans, looking for the guy to return his coat. Heavy-set but muscular, she tells the grip she asks. The guy just shakes his head. Black man, early thirties, name starts with a K. I think he’s a production assistant, she tells the head of craft services. Try the production manager, she says.

Cherry waits for the production manager by the back lot, sharing a cigarette with the craft services woman. She watches a figure in riding leathers and a full face helmet execute a perfect slide on the blue and yellow Honda, lay it down with rolling finesse and come up firing fake rounds from a pistol into a mess of puppet tentacles.

“Who’s that?” she asks the woman, impressed and reluctantly jealous.

“Stunt coordinator.”

The rider pulls off his helmet and it’s the guy, Keith, who put Luke Skywalker band-aids on her boo boos and somehow threatened or sweet-talked an actress monster into relinquishing her trailer to a lowly stuntwoman for an hour. He turns around and grins his goofy grin at her, waves. Cherry feels her heart pang dangerously, more terrifying than tentacle monsters or dark storm drains. She has a sudden full sensory memory of his hands pressing down the adhesive strips of the bandages, ghosting gently down her forearms, and shivers. This guy, this dork, is kind and clever and skilled, and not her type, and so, so hot.

**Author's Note:**

> I like to imagine Keith, years later, telling the kids "I first saw your mother on a movie set, baring her teeth like a beautiful, fierce warrior princess, and she had no idea I was alive"...but I didn't get that far ;)
> 
> Loved your prompt and I hope this scratches at least one of you story itches! Happy Yuletide!


End file.
